April 2015

Crimson

The blood is drying on your ankle. We do not
remember the flies, though surely we swatted
them from our faces. Surely the dog's muddy
feet have stamped the banking beside the brook
stirring them into a buzzing of air before our
eyes. But I don't remember a prick. No sting.
And surely I would if you were bleeding. No.
Roses on the banking, growing wild. Spiky
blackberries, plumping, yes, it was thorns that
scratched you. You bleed so easily. All of you
turning out to rust in air. And I find a single feather.
Cardinal red. To place in your hair.